


Recovery

by suddenly_im_Mr_sex



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Doctor John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Professor John, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Teacher-Student Relationship, Triggers, Underage - Freeform, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suddenly_im_Mr_sex/pseuds/suddenly_im_Mr_sex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 19 year old Sherlock is beaten and raped by a group of thugs he seeks shelter with his Professor, John Watson as they begin the long process of healing Sherlock physically and emotionally. Eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nowhere to Go

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that means a lot to me as it discusses something I have experienced and learned to cope with. In terms of writing it's not perfect, tense, and personal pronouns may be wrong occasionally as it has been changed from first person woman (writer as victim), to third person (Sherlock as victim).  
> Please read, kudos, favourite, comment and wait eagerly for the upcoming chapters.   
> Thanks xx

It’s one of those things every human has imagined at some point in their life, when walking home alone at night, or in bed hearing a noise that sounds eerily like the latch of your apartment door. We try not to dwell on what would happen if our fears were manifested, but the thoughts fester in the back of our minds.  
Out of the belief that he could handle himself, Sherlock found himself half naked, barefoot, cold and bleeding forty minutes from home, with no friends or family living anywhere close, and he’d rather die out in the weather than go home in this state. Normally he takes a cab, but any public transport was out, they’d ask too many questions. He just needed to be out of the rain and away from further danger. That was how he ended up at his forensics professor’s house at 3am on a Saturday morning, crying and shivering as he walked the steep path to the doctor’s house, every few steps feeling a jagged stone grind painfully against the soles of his tired feet. For once there was an up-side to his infatuation with the older man. He knew it was completely out of order to even know his address, the thought rising with bile in Sherlock’s throat that last time he saw him he was engaged. The thoughts started running wild, ‘he might not let me in, or he could be out, or on holiday, he might have even moved house.’ His breathing was coming short and fast and he felt the shock coming on hard, his vision blurring and greying out, his body feeling even colder, and the urge to throw up nagged at his weary body. Two houses from the doctor’s he stopped to throw up in a garbage bin, even in a moment like this he felt like personally apologising to the owner of the house for the annoyance his existence continued to cause. After a few minutes of sitting in the gutter with his hands around his grazed knees he managed to stand and wobbly stumble the last hundred metres or so to Dr Watson’s doorstep.  
Even at his door, Sherlock considered turning around and wandering the streets until sunrise, it was only him having been spied through his living room window that he opened the door.  
“Oh God, fuck, let me get a…” he jogged out of view, thankfully leaving the door open, he could feel the central heating from here, praying to the higher powers he didn’t believe in that he would come back and do something… anything. After a minute or so of bustling around his house, Dr Watson returned with a big fluffy towel, handing it to Sherlock,  
“Please come sit down.” Sherlock walked behind him and Watson signalled at his expensive looking leather couch. Sherlock shook and head and went to explain, with no words coming out, suddenly the coldness was back and he was hurriedly led to the kitchen sink where he violently threw up for the following few minutes. In all of the ways Sherlock had imagined seducing this man, throwing up in his sink wasn’t one of them.  
“Alright I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No.” the younger man whimpered, shaking his head furiously,  
“No please, I can’t.” Despite making an unconvincing argument he nodded sternly and took in Sherlock’s broken form,  
“Okay well I need to check you over, but I don’t have the same equipment as the hospital.”

“It’s you or it’s no one.” Sherlock stared at the grain of the polished timber in favour of the doctor’s strained expression.  
“Okay, I can try… if you’re sure?” Watson pretended to be calm, it was a thin veil but Sherlock nodded quickly, anything but the hospital.  
“Come on, bathroom’s through here.” He was led into a pristine white bathroom,  
“If it’s too uncomfortable I can still call an ambulance, but if you still… it would help if I could… see all of you. I’m just going to grab the heater.”  
Sherlock nodded and as he walked out of the small space he shakily removed the remains of his dress shirt, unzipping what used to be his favourite pair of trousers with sore fingers. After the thugs had left Sherlock ran mindlessly, any thought buckling up his trousers was replaced with the need to get out, and just be away from what he had just experienced. By the time he returned with a heavy looking bar heater, Sherlock was in just his blood-stained briefs, shaking, his arms crossed over his chest. As he took in the wrecked sight of Sherlock, his eyes turned glassy, carefully lowering the heater and plugging it into the wall, clicking it onto its highest setting.  
“Can I close the door?” Sherlock nodded. As a doctor he must have had at least a little training in dealing with victims… like him. Meaning he knew to leave as much space between himself and his… patient. Sherlock hated thinking of himself as the victim, but there was no other word that fit the bill quite as snugly.  
Little did Dr Watson know, Sherlock trusted him more than anyone he had ever met. Watson walked closer to Sherlock like he was trying to calm a frightened animal, Sherlock supposed that was justified.  
“Like I said before, if it gets too much I can…”

“Yeah I know. I’ll be fine.” Sherlock cut him off, his mind reminding him how ironic it was that he’d always wanted his professor touching him, a tear rolled down his cheek as Dr Watson slowly pulled down his briefs, now red with drying blood.  
He started generally by checking his ‘patient’ for extensive bleeding, broken bones, concussion and the like before scouring Sherlock more closely for the variety of cuts, scrapes and bruises which would surely need patching up.  
The doctor stood with his body almost flush with Sherlock’s as he examined a bite on his shoulder, swabbing before disinfecting,  
“I know it hurts but I can’t let this bastard get away with this.” Sherlock stopped himself from correcting the professor. He had more than one swab so Sherlock knew what was coming next, he nodded at the hand hovering on the small of his back,  
“Just do it.” Sherlock sniffed, placing his hands on the basin and leaning over as much as his body would allow.  
“Did he wear a condom?” the doctor asked, clearing his throat  
“One did.” He whimpered in reply,  
“Oh god Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” He knelt behind his student, spreading his cheeks and taking numerous swabs,  
“You’ve got a bit of a tear to your… yeah. But umm, no permanent damage… which is umm, good… well not good, but you know…”  
“Please stop.” He backed away from Sherlock like he was electrocuted,  
“I mean the awkwardness.” Sherlock had always been a pretty no-bullshit kind of guy so this was not the time for someone to be beating around the bush. The professor stood up and nodded tentatively,  
“The rectal bleeding will be difficult for excretions but as long as you look after it you’ll be physically fine.  
“Thank you.” It was the first time Dr Watson had ever heard Sherlock thank anyone, let alone with any legitimacy.  
“Do you want to have a shower?”  
“I could really do with a bath, yeah…” As he turned around to leave, Sherlock whimpered and another tear formed in the corner of his eye,  
“Please Dr Watson, I don’t want to be alone.” He was disgusted at how vulnerable he sounded, always having prided himself on his independence, which was probably the main reason he was walking to a bus station alone in the middle of the night.  
“Of course, and please call me John. You don’t need formalities right now.” John placed the bathmat on the tiles, shoving the plug in the bath and turning on the taps as far as they would go. There was a graunch of the hot water system followed by near silence as the bath filled. Although he’d cut the crap the awkwardness was still practically tangible,  
“Normally, as a doctor I would say don’t have it too hot but… if it’ll help?”

Sherlock laughed humourlessly,  
“Yeah, I need to get… clean.”  
“Okay. More bubbles.” He squeezed the bottle under the running water and smiled reassuringly at his student, his brow crinkled with worry, still, Sherlock was so thankful for him that it made the edges of his lips quirk, he noticed and it the smile became genuine. He rolled the sleeves of his navy jumper up to test the temperature and nodded.  
“That should be fine, do you want a hand getting in.” Sherlock nodded and he held out his hand to step into the delightfully hot water and helped him to sit without sustaining any new injuries.  
To Sherlock’s surprise, he managed to relax a little as John helped him to wash himself, enough that he realised his arms were no longer moving and that John was doing all the work. His eyes were lidded with sleep and his mind started wandering,  
“Where’s your fiancée?” John cleared his throat, and Sherlock realised what an intrusive question that was, even considering for him,  
“Umm… ex-fiancée, there was another man.”  
“How?”  
“How what?”  
“How could there be any other man?”  
“Shh.” John whispered calmly. He must have realised how close Sherlock was to saying something truly incriminating. The rest of the bath was spent in silence, only speaking to help him out of the tub. Sherlock dried himself briefly, thankful for the heater and steam wafting in the air. John bandaged his arm and stuck plasters over the worst cuts before helping Sherlock into an old pair of grey sweatpants and an oversized oatmeal jumper. Sherlock was left only vaguely remember John carrying him to his bedroom, leaving to sleep on his couch.


	2. Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, subscribed, favourited, commented or given kudos, it means so much to know my writing is being appreciated. Here's chapter 2...

When Sherlock awoke he was surrounded by the smell that was so uniquely, Professor John Watson, the faint tang of his aftershave on the pillow, the sheets felt lovely, expensive and it was so warm under all these blankets. Slowly however the events of the previous night dawned on him and soon he was sobbing uncontrollably, curling himself up into a defensive ball on one side of the bed. He heard footsteps and his heart sped up further, assuming it must have been one of his attackers. They got louder, he was in the room,  
“Please oh god don’t, not again please!” Sherlock screamed, the tears flowing down his hot red cheeks, a hand was on his shoulder,  
“No.” it was a whimper,  
“Sherlock, it’s me, it’s John. Shh.” And for a moment everything stopped and Sherlock remembered the part of last night that was still slowly seeping back in, his professor was who he had run to, he’d bathed him, patched him up, and offered him his bed.  
“Oh fuck.” Sherlock sighed, thankful, nodding for John to climb onto the bed beside him. He felt the bed’s weight shift under him, and John lay back against the headboard on the other side of the bed, he held his hand out to Sherlock, who instantly grabbed for it, John's thumb rubbed over the back of his hand.  
“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, trying not to get too caught up in the affection that was clearly just pity.  
“It’s only seven and I don’t have work so we’ve got all the time in the world.” John whispered and Sherlock nodded, John kissed the back of his hand, Sherlock’s eyes widened,  
“Oh god.” John stuttered, obviously realising what he’d just done.  
“I’m sorry I should let you get some more sleep.”  
“Please.” Sherlock whimpered as he sat up,  
“Stay?” A smile crept onto John’s red face and he lay back down, folding back the covers and sliding in, grabbing the other pillow off the floor. It was the only way Sherlock could have possibly fallen back asleep, with the man who saved him by his side.  
When Sherlock awoke next, John’s strong arm was flung around his waist and Sherlock smiled at the feeling of John’s warm breaths against his neck, his thumb was now smoothing over Sherlock’s ridden up jumper, the same way he had on the back of Sherlock’s hand only hours before. He turned to see John looking at him sleeping, his elbow propping him up on the pillow.  
“Do you want to hear the plan for today?” John asked quietly, his voice was low and gravelly, this must have been his morning voice… and in any other context Sherlock would be ready to pounce on him. Sherlock nodded and he took a breath,  
“First you need to call your parents, tell them what’s going on.”  
“I live alone. There’s no one who would care enough to notice I’m not there.” John opened his mouth to object but soon closed it again, 

“If you’re sure...” Sherlock nodded,  
“Okay. We need to talk to the police, I need to give them the swabs I took and you should probably give a statement or something, if you’re feeling up to it.” Sherlock nodded and John smiled, obviously thinking that Sherlock would instantly object… still John seemed most nervous about what he was to say next,  
“And I want you to talk to me. Get you ready for talking to the police.”  
“Can the talking take place in bed?” Sherlock yawned,

“Yes.” John smiled sweetly,  
“Fine.”  
“Tell me everything.” John’s face looked so innocent and gentle that it all just came out as soon as he asked.  
“I went out with a few friends from study group, I took the bus to the bar we were meeting at and it all went fine but when I left some guys followed me… they’d only been a couple of seats down the whole night. I started running but they were fast and when they caught up to me they pushed me into a side-street and started swearing and touching me and well… two or three of them took a turn while the other guy filmed it… and when they were done they just left me lying on the ground, all I could think of was that I was near your place, so I just… walked, and apparently… found you.”  
Sherlock could see rage boiling over inside John, his teeth were gritted, he always got very passionate about his hate of abusers in forensics, especially if there was sexual abuse in the study content. Sherlock knew this would be no different, he wouldn’t settle until they were behind bars, at least.  
They lay there in silence for a while, as John mulled over what Sherlock had said, finally breaking the silence with a question Sherlock was hoping would never come up,  
“How did you know where I live?”  
“I did a bunch of filing for admin last year and had to type up all the staff information, somehow I must have managed to remember your address.” Sherlock felt bad lying to him after everything that he had done, but admitting I searched for him in the White Pages sounded creepier than he was willing to appear right now.  
“Oh.” He looked guilty for asking now,

“I’m just glad I remembered… I’d still be out there somewhere if I didn’t.”  
“So do you live with friends, or..?” Sherlock shook his head,  
“No… just me.”  
“I can’t imagine you’ll want to be alone all that time,” John grimaced, obviously putting himself in Sherlock’s shoes,  
“Not really… but that’s the way it is.”  
“You could always stay here.” It slipped out too quickly, Sherlock could tell John was shocked at how his mouth had betrayed him,  
“I couldn’t impose like that.” Sherlock smiled weakly, he couldn’t imagine that John would want me moping around his house for a whole week, helping me get into the bath and other thrilling activities.  
“I can’t stand the thought of you dealing with this alone.” John wiped his sleeve across his face, and Sherlock silently swore that he wouldn’t let on that he’d seen the tear that trickled down his professor’s jaw. Sherlock nodded, John sniffed,  
“Breakfast.”


	3. Admitting It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells John how he knows where his professor lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting, bookmarking, favouriting and leaving kudos. It means more than you can imagine. This is such a fluffy chapter.

Sherlock shifted onto his elbows to sit up in John’s bed, the pain of sitting up too much, his arms giving out, causing him to flop unceremoniously back against the pillow.   
“You okay?” John shouted from the kitchen, over the sizzling of a frypan. 

“Yeah… just umm… can we have breakfast in bed.” The embarrassment showed through in the wavering of Sherlock’s voice.   
“Course, I’ll bring it in in a second. You want coffee?”  
“No thanks.”   
A few minutes later John returned with a tray carrying two plates of toast, bacon, Sherlock’s orange juice and his coffee, for a second it almost felt normal.   
“You sore?” he asked, his voice gentle,  
“Yeah… but I mean, I expected that.” He nodded and they ate in silence, it was nice to just hear something as mundane as the crunching of toast.   
“If you don’t feel up to it I have a friend in the police who could come over so you could give your statement here.” Sherlock nodded, tears itching at my eyes. John hesitated before wiping his student’s cheek with his thumb,  
“You’re still just as strong as you were.” Sherlock nodded, pretending to believe him while the tears kept flowing.   
“You’ll get through this, I know it.”  
“You don’t know anything.” Sherlock whispered, immediately regretting insulting John after his endless generosity towards him. Sherlock tried to stand up, pain flaring through him, John grabbed his wrist and he panicked.   
It was when they first caught up to him, he almost got away and then those bruising, calloused fingers were gripped, vice-like around his arm. Sherlock was lost in the memory, the trigger so strong that he felt his hands pushing John away, landing a single blow to the side of his mouth. Shock overtaking him, he submitted, minutes passing before it eventually dawned on him that his retaliation was real, but that John was not an enemy.   
He let the tears overwhelm me as he watched John wipe blood away from the corner of his mouth, his head burrowing against his professor’s chest, in need of the comfort he couldn’t ask for. A strong hand held the back of my head, holding Sherlock close, his chin rested atop the younger man’s sleep-mussed hair. Amidst the sounds of Sherlock’s sobs, he could hear John sniffling, every so often shifting his arm to wipe away tears or blood from his cut lip, probably both.   
“Sherlock.” He whispered against Sherlock’s soft, wild hair,  
“What don’t I know?” In the circumstances the truth seemed so insignificant that Sherlock felt it falling from his mouth without any filter.   
“I didn’t just… happen to remember your address.” His voice broke mid-sentence and John slowly patted his hair.   
“Okay…”  
“How did you know?” Sherlock couldn’t say it, but he couldn’t think of another cover either,  
“Sherlock… please.”  
“I sought it out… I wanted to know everything about you, I couldn’t… I can’t deduce you like I could with everyone else and I can’t get you out of my fucking mind.” He yelled before crashing again, sighing heavily,  
“Mike tried to warn me.” Sherlock looked up at his teacher, looked into his eyes for what was probably only the second time since he had arrived.   
“He… uhh said that he thought you… umm, had feelings for me… but that was two years ago. I’d laughed and told him to stop being daft, I was about to propose to Mary and you were what… seventeen?”  
The tears grew more sluggish but Sherlock’s expression did not change, he waited for John to continue, he’d gone long enough hopelessly looking at him. 

“There were times last year when I heard him in my head, if I thought I’d caught you looking at me, or when you couldn’t look at me in your oral… I wrote it off as coincidence and nerves with public speaking. I realised I was giving the thought more attention than I assumed a professional should and preoccupied myself with organising unimportant details for the wedding. I guess it all sort of came to a head at the criminology ball… with that song.”  
For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of my mouth, remembering how much he had fussed over that song, how he thought it would be the only way to even hint at his feelings for his professor.   
At the time his heart fucking fluttered as he held the bow and violin in his skilled hands, he gave himself hope, feeling some connection which he later rationalised as nerves and false hope.   
“Let me grab something.” John whispered, leaning over the edge of the bed to pick up his phone. Sherlock watched as he selected the ‘top 25 most played’ playlist and saw it at the top, ‘387 plays’ it read, he pressed play and looked into Sherlock’s sad eyes,   
“I play it on repeat every night until I’m tired enough to sleep.”   
He’d recorded it. John had recorded the rendition without even knowing the song was just for him. Sherlock’s mind drifted into the song and remembered holding back tears each time he took a fleeting glance at John, his arm around his wife-to-be’s waist.  
He squeezed his eyes shut with the pain he felt playing on the night, he hummed the melody he had written at all hours of the morning, when he could no longer distract himself with study.   
“Open your eyes.” John whispered, his hot breath against Sherlock’s ear,  
“I could hear the sadness in the composition Sherlock, I knew there had to be a pain in your life, nearly unbearable.” He pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s and we they breathed each other in, the silence meaning more than words ever could. It was recognition of all the pain they had both felt, and that they would never let one go through such pain alone again.


	4. Questionable Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock talks to the police and him and John get caught up trying to be normal.

Talking to the police was tougher than they had both imagined, recalling the gruesome details to the practiced stoic face, trying not to think about the bags with the swabs that had been handed over, and the flashing red light on the voice recorder.   
The hardest part however was John’s ‘friend’s curiosity into their relationship and how it was that Sherlock confided in a man he claimed to barely know. Luckily for them, the officer didn’t mention their professional relationship in the voice recordings, and so it was that Sherlock and John were simply friends.   
Eventually he left, telling us that they would be contacted once the DNA samples were tested.   
“They’ll get ‘em Sherlock.” He nodded, John left his hand resting against his cheek. John smiled but he knew Sherlock was sceptical to say the least.   
When the awkward time arose, Sherlock had to ask his ‘friend’ for help getting to the bathroom, the pain was excruciating, little blood though, which was a good sign. After that Sherlock was happy to change the scenery to John’s lounge room, he propped Sherlock up with couch cushions so he could see the television, and sat close, protective, only able to concentrate on the crappy afternoon TV for about five minutes.   
“So what now?”   
“I dunno… I guess you probably have to get groceries or something…”  
“You think I’ve been sitting here debating with myself whether to ask you about groceries? I mean… with us.”  
He turned red and Sherlock smiled shyly, after admitting their feelings John just sort of just held him until he fell asleep, there was no real closure. He wanted to say, straight away, ‘you should be my boyfriend’ or something to that effect, to set John’s heart at ease… and Sherlock’s, but he couldn’t. With all that had just happened, the thought of anyone touching him that way made him feel vaguely nauseous, but at the same time, he knew that he wanted John more than anything else in the world.   
“Take me to bed?” Sherlock whimpered, and John coughed loudly, he would do anything if it would make this perfect man happy.   
John’s body from forehead to under his collar was flushed,   
“Are you sure Sherlock… I mean… really?”   
“Please John… please make love to me.” Now Sherlock was blushing as well, he begged John like that at the beginning of every fantasy he’d had, which were… plenty.   
“Yes…” John whispered, standing from the couch and taking Sherlock’s hand, leading him back to his bed. He lay Sherlock carefully down atop the wrinkled covers looking over him like Sherlock was some kind of god. Only making him self-consciously realise that he was wearing baggy old sweats. 

“You are gorgeous… absolutely gorgeous.” John smiled that smile that always used to make Sherlock blush and shift in his seat. He leaned over, positioning a knee between Sherlock’s legs then doing the same with the other.  
He leaned down, kissing Sherlock hard, his tongue invading his mouth, licking desperately over Sherlock’s teeth and tongue, John settled over him, their bodies flush, John’s obvious erection grinding against Sherlock’s own half-hard cock, John’s hips rolling hard against him, pinning him to the bed. Sherlock broke the kiss, needing to breathe but John recaptured his lips, groaning into his mouth… it was too much, Sherlock started shaking his head, his breathing close to hyperventilation, he pushed at John’s chest and after a second of realising the younger man’s discomfort he practically jumped from the bed.  
“I’m sorry… it was all just too fast… it felt like I was being held down… I’m so…” Sherlock muttered,  
“You’re sorry? No… shit I’m sorry I got too carried away…” As Sherlock’s breathing calmed he smiled at John and watched as his cock twitched against his tight jeans.   
“John… go finish yourself off… that can’t be comfortable.”   
“No… I don’t need to… it’ll go away.” Sherlock looked at him and sighed,  
“I’m enough of a nuisance without giving you blue balls… off you go.” John quickly nodded and walked into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door, Sherlock could still hear quiet groans from the bed but it weirdly just made him smile.   
After five minutes or so, John came back to the bedroom, looking blissed out but guilty, Sherlock grabbed his hand and gave John a knowing look at the shallow bite mark on the back,  
“I was trying to be quiet… I…”  
Sherlock chuckled darkly,   
“It’s okay, come lie down.” John let his hand slip from Sherlock’s and walked around to the other side of the bed,   
“I do want to try again… just slower.” Sherlock clarified and yanked at John’s arm, bringing him closer so they could kiss, it wasn’t chaste but it was gentle, just lips brushing against lips, Sherlock’s breathing was shaky making John open his eyes, but he smiled and sucked on Sherlock’s bottom lip, he felt him smile.   
“I’m only shaking because of how long I’ve wanted you.” John nodded. Their lips touched again and John licked at the seam of Sherlock’s mouth, he opened it slowly, John darting his tongue out to lick his lover’s lips until he was ready for more.  
He ran the tip of his tongue along John’s lip and caught it between his own, gently lapping at it before sucking on it, releasing it and surfacing for air.   
“This is so stupid.” Sherlock whispered, his eyebrows knitted close together with frustration, he blushed as John made eye contact…  
“Thinking about you any other time I would be painfully hard by now, and now when I’ve got you I’m a nineteen year old with erectile dysfunction!”  
“Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous, you’ve sustained serious abuse, physically and mentally. I’m amazed you even want to kiss me yet.”  
“I’ll always want to kiss you.” Sherlock whispered and John laughed a little,  
“We should get some rest now, tomorrow I wanna see if we can walk around a little bit.”


End file.
